D. Connell - Sherry Cracker Gets Normal

‘No,’ I replied.

My response did not please Ted who exhaled noisily through his nose. The sharp whistling sound made me wonder about the presence of hair inside his nostrils. Abundant nostril hair is not uncommon in men of a certain age. Quality chemists stock nose-grooming tools but I did not think Ted would appreciate this information. I have found that people are not very receptive to grooming or healthcare advice. Ted’s nostrils made an even shriller sound as he exhaled again. His mouth was a tight line and he was looking at me in a disappointed way as if I had just dropped a bottle of sticky red cordial over his linoleum floor. I decided to change the subject.

‘I notice someone has scratched your window.’

‘Bloody vandalism!’

‘The original Vandals were a Germanic tribe that sacked Rome in 455.’

‘You think I don’t know what a vandal is?’ Ted pointed to a security camera peeking out from a small hole in the wall above the payphone. ‘Cost me a fortune to get that installed.’

‘Many people believe that CCTV surveillance is an invasion of privacy. It might interest you to know that there are at least one hundred and seventy-seven CCTV cameras in the centre of this town, which is a lot of surveillance when you think about it.’

‘Roger Bottle is going to double that number and, if you ask me, he’s got the right idea.’ A crimson flush had gathered around the grimy collar of Ted’s T-shirt, inflaming the shaving rash on his neck. ‘They come in here and rip holes in the tablecloths and write filth over the phonebook.’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you think?’

I surveyed the patrons in the café. At the table next to the plumber were two grey-haired women. I could not imagine plumbers having the time or energy to rip up the tablecloths or scribble on the phonebook. That left the pensioners.

‘Pensioners?’

‘Are you taking the piss?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Two can play at that game, little lady.’ Ted filled his chest and lowered his voice. ‘What’s with the tartan trousers?’

‘I have an affinity for the tartans of Scotland. I’ve made a study of them.’

‘You know it all, don’t you.’

‘Not all, but I do know quite a lot. I have several books on the clan system and own a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. I used to be an active member of the public library.’ I looked down at my trousers. ‘This tartan comes from Angus, an agricultural and maritime district near Perthshire. I’ve never visited either district but apparently they are both very scenic. I’ve just been reading about the jute, jam and journalism situation in Dundee. It’s fascinating.’

‘If you’re so bloody smart you can go drink your coffee in the bloody public library.’ Ted raised a hand from his hip and pointed to the door. ‘I don’t want to see you or the likes of that little bastard in here. Do you understand?’

‘No. Mayor Clench closed the library five months ago.’

‘Piss off. You understand that?’

I understood well enough to know that I was being asked to leave. Ted’s words would have been a blow if I did not have an appointment with a psychological expert. The idea of normality was like an orange lifesaver ring bobbing on the ocean. It gave me hope for my personality and my future with Mr Chin.

The lifesaver image made me smile, which seemed to surprise Ted. He glanced at my hands and moved out of my way as I pushed myself to my feet and left the café.

On another day, I might have crossed the square and visited the council photo display but earlier in the week I had encountered a particularly unfriendly council worker. I had arrived at the annexe during regular opening hours only to find the door closed. When I knocked, the woman had opened it a crack and shouted at me that the building was closed ahead of the election before slamming it in my face. This was not the first time I had experienced unpleasantness at the council. The workers are disgruntled and do not appreciate enquiries or suggestions from the public. This attitude is something I do not understand. Why have a suggestion box if no one is supposed to use it?

I stopped at the corner and glanced inside the betting shop, where several men were clustered in front of a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall. The town is not known for its tolerance but the group watching the horse race was a picture of racial harmony. One thin white man, two Chinese and someone from the Indian subcontinent were standing shoulder to shoulder, united by a common cause. This is called the Dunkirk Spirit and is very helpful in times of war when British soldiers are trapped on a coastline and require the assistance of fellow citizens in small vessels. Dunkirk was a tragic moment in the nation’s history but it did highlight the British capacity for rallying around a common cause.

As I headed towards the rose gardens, I thought of the man in the fuchsia trench coat. His comment about the fowl of time had made me curious and I wondered whether I would meet him again. He had not been unfriendly, which had to be a good thing.

Someone had been busy while I was in the café. As I passed back under the rail bridge, I discovered four damp campaign posters pasted along the brick wall of the underpass. The posters showed a man in his late forties with a robust red moustache the size and shape of a hamster. His shoulders were squared in a military manner and his expression was severe: ‘Roger Bottle – a Hard Man for Hard Times.’ Below the mayoral candidate’s photo in smaller print were the words: ‘When the Going Gets Rough, Rog Gets Tough.’

I jotted down the campaign messages in my notebook and as I left the underpass, I discovered that it was drizzling. By the time I reached the Babylon, the drizzle had turned into rain and I decided to step under the awning to wait it out. What I found there took me completely by surprise.

Tied to the double doors of the cinema was a large official-looking notice printed in bold type. My pulse rate increased as I read its contents. I immediately thought of Mr Chin and wondered whether he knew about this new turn of events.

A second surprise was waiting for me when I tried the door to the stairs. It was unlocked. Mr Chin had forgotten to follow me down to lock it after I had left. This was very unusual behaviour for my employer, whose policy was to ‘Lock ruffian and rascal out. Guarantee security and safety for kind boss and office.’

I entered the dark stairwell and quickly climbed the stairs to the landing where I paused to take the door handle in both hands. The heavy reinforced door had a habit of flying open on its German spring hinge and I did not want to give Mr Chin a fright. He does not appreciate surprises as I learned one day when I vacuumed the office and inadvertently shifted the position of his desk by two inches. The reprimand I received must have exceeded the safety guidelines for decibel levels because my ears were still thrumming when I put them on my pillow that evening.

I poked my head in the doorway and found Mr Chin reclined in his Komfort King, sleeping with his mouth open and making a ‘hukka-hukka-hukka’ sound with each exhalation. On his desk were a glass and a half-empty bottle of plum liquor.

I slipped inside and eased the door closed with a faint click before tiptoeing over to my desk. Taking care not to make any noise, I lowered myself on to my chair. It was probably the familiar comfort of the neoprene padding against my buttocks that made me forget myself because the next thing I knew I was rolling the file drawer open at high speed. The heavy cash box inside slid along the bottom of the drawer, hitting its metal interior with a loud clang.

‘Best quality!’ Mr Chin sat bolt upright in his executive chair, shaking his head in confusion. His eyes fell on me, darted to the clock above the door and then flicked back to me. They were watery and bloodshot, red like his cheeks. He blinked. ‘What?’